Dead Gardens
by Razer Athane
Summary: Lars shook his head quickly, furrowing his eyebrows, “No. I’d never.” -Lars x Hwoarang, Oneshot-


Disclaimer: If I owned Tekken, I'd make it so the Jin and Lars fans didn't fight each other so much!

Author's Note: 50th fic o.o... Inspired by **Salysha's **_"Down and Low". _Seriously. I'd been waiting for a Hwoarang/Lars fic for ages (and I know of many others as well!), and I wanted to write one myself but didn't have the motivation, let alone the time – but now I do. And here it is. There's AU elements in it, but there's a lot of… Tekken 6-ness in it. I've been working at this for a long time.

P.S. – my first m/m pairing fic in Tekken (second overall). I'd like some concrit and/or advice from those that are willing to give. I've treated it as though it was any other pairing, but I'm not quite sure if it comes across well. I do plan to do more m/m in the future.

EDIT: Seeing as I can't review reply to an anonymous reviewer, I thought I'd do it here real quick. The reason that it seems fast paced is because they are Lars' memories. The italics are like him talking and those that aren't are like flashbacks, you know?

* * *

**DEAD GARDENS**

* * *

_Ever since I was little… I liked to paint.  
I'd paint my Mother with her wide smile and her sparkling blue eyes.  
I'd paint the kitchen where she would make __surströmming.  
I'd paint the playground at my school, I'd paint the starlit sky.  
I always lost myself in painting._

* * *

He held his head and sighed, closing the door to his apartment behind him. Another day done, another mission carried out. He was exhausted and growing tired of Jin's tyrannical ways. Do this, do that, go here, go there, kill that, colonise this. Lars Alexandersson felt like a toy, which was something he truly did not appreciate or like.

Changing into something more comfortable than his Tekken Force uniform, he opened his fridge and pulled out his dinner – leftover palt dumplings that he had tried to make yesterday. They didn't look anything like his Mother's, but he needed to try and learn how to cook. She wasn't there anymore. She couldn't cook for him. He had to take care of himself.

Just as he went to heat them up, his cellphone began to buzz. Quickly grabbing it, he looked at the caller ID, placed his dinner in the microwave, and answered the call with a vague, tired smile, "Tougou."

"Lars," he replied with an emotionless voice – his usual greeting, "I see you made it home okay." A quick 'mhm' prompted his second-in-command to continue, "I was wondering if you would like to drop by my apartment and watch a few movies with me. It's the weekend and we both need to wind down. Well at least, you do. Jin has been working you like a –"

"Toy," he growled, hearing the microwave beep.

"I was going to say 'dog', but if you insist on 'toy', then I won't question it. So, how about it?"

He shook his head, aware that Tougou couldn't see his action, "No thanks. I'd prefer to relax on my own."

"Ah, alright then. I'll talk to you later." Not even waiting for a 'goodbye', Tougou hung up, as usual. It took a while for Lars to get used to the man's mannerisms, but now that he was used to it, he wouldn't have it any other way. Placing the item on the kitchen counter and taking his dinner from the microwave, he left the room and headed to his bedroom, intending to eat at the desk there.

Using his arm to sweep aside work papers, including the occasional sketch, he placed the bowl on the desk, sat himself down, and began to pick at it. He looked to the current page of his open diary, scanning yesterday's small entry. Placing some more of the dumpling in his mouth, he picked up his pen and began to write down the events of his day, and maybe, _hopefully, _a small idea or way to overthrow Jin. Like every other day, nothing came.

Discouraged by this, he put the pen down and stood, taking the now empty dishes to the sink. Moving into the living room, he picked up his painting materials as well as his car keys, intending to drive off and paint somewhere. It was his routine as of late – get home, eat, and then go off and paint. He needed it. It was one of the few things that kept him… happy.

* * *

_I chose to go to a garden this time – a bleak, lifeless one.  
I don't know why I picked that location. I guess I wanted to paint something dark.  
When I drove there that night… I didn't expect company.  
Usually, I'm alone. And when I started, I was.  
And then he came._

* * *

Lars furrowed his eyebrows, "…Excuse me?"

"I asked you to get my good side."

Further confounded, he inquired, "And what makes you think I'm painting _you?_"

The stranger shrugged off the question and walked to the centre of the garden. There used to be red flowers in a circle, around the centre of the area. Blue flowers would be after that, then yellow. Vines used to be crawling up the small brick walls, and frogs used to come. But now, since the war started, those who tended to it had long moved on, leaving everything to die. He came here to train alone, because nobody set foot here anymore.

…Except that man sitting on the bench.

"So," he began, stretching his arms and legs, "Why are you here?"

"…To paint?" Lars remarked, gesturing to his canvas in his lap.

He smirked, "Well obviously."

"You were the one who asked."

"Shut it."

Shrugging again and thereafter ignoring the man's presence, he returned to painting. Every so often, Lars would look up and observe the scenery, taking in how that tree's branches would seemingly claw over and around the lamppost – or how the leaves and long-withered petals soothingly stroked the ground in the light wind. But every time he looked for those details, he couldn't help but observe the man.

He was dressed in white training clothes – it wasn't a gi, he wasn't sure what it was called, but clearly the symbol on the hands signalised he was a Tae Kwon Do practitioner – and had dark red hair. He moved so fluidly, as though he were water running down rocks. Even in the cold, he moved with grace, completely unbothered by the weather itself. He moved from low kicks to rising kicks, and then began to practice roundhouse kicks. He'd seen him somewhere before.

"What's your name?" Lars suddenly asked.

"Hwoarang."

Ah, of course he'd recognised him from somewhere. An Iron Fist participant, from the last three tournaments or so. This was the man who defeated Jin Kazama in his human form – the only one to do so fairly. This was the man whom Jin would constantly rant and rave over, in anger, curiosity and maybe even with a tinge of care. This was the man whose photographs were on his boss' desk, scribbles of his whereabouts and methods to murder him all over the place.

This was the man that Jin wanted dead.

"And you're Lars Alexandersson."

"Yes." He'd expected that. After all, he'd been on numerous news broadcasts. People knew his name.

He continued to watch, trying to remain focused on his painting but failing to do so. Every time he looked up, he'd be transfixed. Every time he looked down, he'd want to look back up to make sure that the way that the branches on the bush were surging forward in the correct direction.

"Stop checking me out and finish that damn painting," Hwoarang remarked with a smirk.

"Who says I'm checking you out?"

"Well, I'm hot firstly…" At this, Lars rolled his eyes, "…and secondly you keep getting distracted. You initially go to look at the brick wall, and then your eyes drift to me. So stop watching me and my sexy ass, stop daydreaming about making a dynamic entry _into _my ass, and finish that damn painting, because I want to see."

"…What makes you think I'm even attracted to you?"

"Everyone is!" he snorted. It was obvious that Hwoarang was seeking some type of comeback. He was bored.

Annoyed but amused by the comments, he continued the painting, fiercely determined not to look up at the Korean again. Numerous minutes slid by, and all was silent save for the occasional grunt, wisp of wind and stroke of the brush. Soon enough, he was done, and he surveyed the drying image several times, as well as the scenery. He placed it on the empty space beside him, before putting away most of his smaller items into his backpack.

"Whoa."

The Swede turned his head to see the other man marvel at his work, mouth slightly open, face entirely lax with surprise. He reached out his hands and picked up the item, careful not to smudge it in any way, shape or form, whether it was dry or not; and continued to scan it, from the trees to the breaking pavement. It was… honestly beautiful.

"You're really good, Lars."

He shrugged, slung the bag over his shoulder, and lightly plucked the picture from the fighter's hands. With a small smile and tilt of his head, he looked away and gazed at the full moon above them, "You're right about one thing…" He turned to look at him before heading towards his car, leaving for his apartment, "You do have a nice ass."

* * *

_I rather liked those gardens… I went every Friday.  
I wasn't alone either, because Hwoarang was always there too.  
_"_Back again, are we?" He would say. We would chat. Then he would practice and I would paint.  
I would paint the gardens from different angles. I would paint the sky.  
Over time, I found myself painting him. _

* * *

He was practicing things in right stance today. Lars would often find himself distracted, but Hwoarang would not comment and merely continued his training. Four right mid kicks, three right mid kicks and then a low with his left, two right mid kicks and then his left travelling over his body and slamming into the ground, and then he would bring one of his legs right across his body. From past experience, this kick he called 'backlash' would send his opponent flying. He loved it.

The love for that move was obvious on his face. Every time he would go into that kick, the Swede would watch his face light up – there were even the hints of a smile on his face. He would memorise that smile, the way his hair moved, the way his body was stretched out near the end of the attack, the poise of his body; and he would then look back down to his canvas and paint what he'd memorised.

He threw out the backlash kick again, but returned to his stance, wobbling. Lars smirked, realising that he was the source of the distraction, and called out, "You should probably stop staring at me and watch your feet upon landing, Hwoarang."

"And who says I was staring at you?" he replied defensively, however he didn't mean for it to come out in such a manner.

He said nothing and returned to his painting, adding in a few flicks of colour to his vibrant, red hair; and he touched up and strengthened the shadows that the fighter portrayed on the ground. As he did these things, he couldn't help but smile, remembering the occasional, smarmy comment that the Korean would lodge at one of his former paintings, his favourite one being – 'you know, the way that you've done that tree, it really reminds me of something phallic. I approve'.

It made him wonder, for a moment, how he felt about the man. He knew he was attracted to men, but he didn't realise that his feelings came up for this man that fast – was Hwoarang even gay? With a small laugh to himself, he shrugged and disregarded the thought of them being together. Besides, even if they could, they couldn't – he was being hunted by the most powerful man in the world, and the artist was his lackey.

Finished with his picture, he began to pack up his other things as usual. He stole a glance at Hwoarang, who was also stuffing things into his black duffle bag and grabbing a quick, well-deserved drink of water. Wiping sweat from his forehead with the sleeve of his dobok (Lars had asked him what it was called), the Korean approached him as he continued packing, and observed the new painting, a hint of a smirk on his face. He really did get his good side.

"Awesome as always."

"Thank you."

Placing the item back on the silver bench, the younger man opened the front zipper of his duffle bag and dug around something. Curious to the Korean grumblings, Lars slung his own bag over his shoulder and picked up the painting in one hand, careful not to touch any of the paint in case it was not dry yet. He craned his neck upwards for a moment to stretch, before bringing it back down and seeing Hwoarang's hand extended, holding small packet of –

He furrowed his eyebrows, looking at the man, who was obviously looking the other way, "…Are those _pastellfiskar_?"

"If you mean 'Hwoarang you dashingly handsome man, are they Swedish Fish candies'? Then your answer is 'yes'," he stuffed them into the hand by his side with a small grin, nodded at him, and then continued on his way, going down the curvy path. Not even looking back, he lazily saluted the soldier, a sign of respect.

"What are they for?" Lars found himself asking, completely puzzled by the man's act.

"To eat," he replied over his shoulder, chuckling.

"Yeah – I – I know _that _Hwoarang, but, why did you buy them for me?"

He shrugged again, "Token of my friendship."

_Friendship? Wait a minute – I…_

Lars looked at the pastellfiskar.

* * *

_I unknowingly became his toy – but I was treated right.  
Hwoarang treated me with respect and cared for me. Jin did not.  
Hwoarang treated me as a friend. Hwoarang actually cared.  
Jin did not, though he should be more of a friend than the Korean.  
I suppose 'toy' isn't the right word after all._

* * *

He tried to remain focused on his painting, but this time, Alexandersson found himself staring into space, confused by his own thoughts and feelings on the current situation. The world dulled to nothing but the man's grunts during his kicks, and the chirping crickets somewhere in the background. The world felt darker than normal because of his inner turmoil. It annoyed him more than anything, because he believed it was for a truly stupid reason.

The other man soon realised something was wrong. He stopped in the middle of an axe kick, wobbling back to a standing position. Hwoarang observed the man's stiff posture, noting in particular how it was leaning forward instead of sitting up straight. He had one hand at the top of the canvas, and the other was grasping the brush firmly, staring at the few splodges he'd made so far.

Annoyed by this more than he thought, he stopped training and strolled over to him, arms folded across his chest. Tilting his head back a little and awaiting some form of acknowledgement – which came when the Swede looked up – he questioned, "Something wrong, Lars? Brought the wrong paint, or you're sick of painting the gardens?"

"No."

"Must be sick of me then," he quipped, shrugging, "I'll go."

"No!"

The urgency in which 'no' had been spat the second time had Hwoarang's interest rise. He lightly pried the canvas and brush from his hands, placing them on either side of him on the bench. Squatting so that he was level with him, the younger man rested his elbows on his knees and his chin on both of his fists, "So then, what's up?"

Lars uncharacteristically began to fiddle with his hands, unsure of what to say or make of the current situation. He was briefly reminded of a nervous girl, or an erratic chicken; he didn't want to associate himself with either of them at the moment. He chose his words carefully, looking at the man in his amber eyes, "I have a problem."

"Well obviously, dickhead."

The statement seemed to comfort him. He began to run over various ways to express himself in his head. 'I think I like you' – _no, too blank – _'I believe I am attracted to you' – _no, too formal – _'wanna go out sometime?' – _that doesn't fit well with me – _'you, me, your bedroom, now' – _no way, that makes me sound too easy – _'so, I was thinking, maybe we could…' – _how the hell do I even finish such a sentence?_

"Come on Lars, before I get old."

He didn't know what possessed him to do such a thing, but he found himself grabbing the back of the Korean's head, pulling him towards him. He closed his eyes and crushed his lips to the man's, unaware of his initially panicking and unsure face. He was unaware of a hand snaking around to hold him closer – but it didn't happen, because within moments, he pulled away. With cheeks as red as the other man's hair, he began to stutter, "I'm sorry, I don't know what came over me… I was just –"

As he tried to find excuses, Hwoarang just sat there with a blank face, his own thoughts running through his head. The incessant rambling was proving to be annoying, however, and to silence him, he quickly leant forward and placed a kiss on his lips in response and acceptance. The action caused Lars to stop cold.

"You speak too much," Hwoarang remarked, placing a stray hand on Lars' cheek.

The vague, pleased smile on his face caused the soldier to smile as well.

* * *

_We grew close. Very close.  
As months passed, we eventually went out to quiet places, so he wasn't recognised.  
I took him to my apartment and showed him my paintings. He met Tougou.  
He took me to his apartment, showing off his own 'artwork'. I met Baek Doo San.  
We were so different, yet we were the same._

* * *

"I still don't believe you used to put graffiti all over walls and doors in the streets. Did you think you were trying to be cool?"

Hwoarang shrugged, "Relax, it's not like I do it anymore. I was only a kid. They were my artwork, like the paintings are yours. And they're beautiful, as you saw in the photos. Sadly my only strength is basically tagging. Ah, typography. Where would we be without you?"

Verbal silence ensued. There was a light tapping noise – the spoon hitting the bowl.

"I was a soldier too, once," Hwoarang remarked. He was lying on his couch, staring up at the ceiling.

Lars cocked an eyebrow. They'd decided to meet up at his apartment before heading to the dead gardens. Before leaving, though, they were having dinner. The Swede took his time in making kimchi for his Korean guest, and to his surprise, his own food tasted decent, for once. It also earned the approval of his partner, so he was quite pleased, "You were a soldier?"

"Yeah, in the Korean Army. Come on, you should know," he scoffed, rolling onto his left side to face him, "Every male Korean is required to do two years in the army. And I was that infamous Sergeant who ran out on the army to fight Kazama in the fourth tournament – which never ended up happening, God fucking dammit – with my ridiculously and hideous short hair. He was probably scared away by how bad I looked."

"You could never look bad," Lars quipped, leaning across and stealing a quick kiss from the man, feeling the small smirk. Grabbing the ceramic bowl on the floor, along with the glass and other cutlery, he stood and moved to the kitchen, to place all the items in the sink for washing later. Afterwards, he headed to his room to grab his canvas and painting utensils – and when he began to walk back down the corridor, he saw Hwoarang standing at the end, duffel bag over his shoulder as usual – but he was in his biker outfit today. He was leaning against the wall, a confused expression on his face, "What?"

"Why do you work for him?"

"For Jin?"

"Yeah."

Lars shrugged, generating his automatic response. He'd been asked this question numerous times before by other people, "He is the most powerful being in existence. I do not fight for him to keep myself alive, I fight for him so I can then tear him down and rip apart the Zaibatsu with my men, and then fix it. There are a lot of us rebelling under my rule, and I think Jin knows this – but both of us are biding our time. He is not just fighting against Kazuya and Heihachi – he knows that one stage I will stab him in the back. Until then, I am his best officer, and he needs to use me."

"So you're letting him boss you around until the time is right."

"Pretty much."

He paused for a moment before shaking his head, "Don't you ever feel anything when you kill?"

"Of course I do. I feel sad."

He cut straight to the point, "Don't you think that Kazama will send you out after me soon?"

"No, what makes you think that?"

"Tekken Force spotted me a few days ago and there's been an increase in 'Hwoarang – Wanted' signs around the place… I'm kinda worried about myself now. I mean…" he turned, leaning wholly against the wall now, "I actually thought it was funny, but now I've realised that he's serious…" he looked back, "He will send you to kill me in time, because you're the best he has. Would you do it to keep your plans together?"

Lars shook his head quickly, furrowing his eyebrows, "No. I'd never."

The Korean looked down at the ground a little and nodded slightly, "Alright. Thanks."

He turned to leave for the dead gardens, but he was stopped with a light touch to his arm. He looked over his shoulder to see the man stand there with a worried expression. He watched as he looked down for a moment before wrapping both arms around his torso, still holding onto the items he brought from his room. Burying his face into the side of his neck, Lars spoke, "I'll never let you go."

The statement did warm Hwoarang's heart, but it did not put him back in a happy, carefree mood.

* * *

_Our days were numbered – as friends, and as partners.  
My attitude change was noticed at work, and Jin did not approve.  
He would ask me what was going on. I had to lie to protect Hwoarang.  
I had such… an insane urge, deep inside, to protect him at all costs.  
I honestly can say I've never felt this way about anybody. _

* * *

"Lars Alexandersson."

He looked to Nina Williams, who had spoken and was standing beside an obviously bored Eddy Gordo. He turned away from Tougou, whom he'd been speaking with, and addressed her, "Yes, Miss Williams? To what do I owe this pleasure on this otherwise wretched Wednesday morning?"

Her monotonous voice sounded through the hall, "Jin Kazama wants you in his office, alone, in five minutes, to discuss a mission. Don't be late."

Nodding briefly, he turned to Tougou to apologise for leaving so suddenly, and began to head towards his boss' office. Within a few minutes, he knocked on the large, wooden door and was told to enter. He breathed out, trying to settle his nerves, opened the door and walked in. Upon the Mishima Zaibatsu Throne was Jin, leaning back with his hands resting in his lap. His face was quite blank, saved for the slightly narrowed eyes.

"Welcome."

He saluted him, "Mr Kazama."

"I have a matter to discuss with you," he looked up to the ceiling, "It seems you have been more and more… heart-filled, lately. And we cannot have you, the leader of the Tekken Force, be that way. You need to be _angry, _Lars. Angry, cold and heartless. You need to be the same man you were when you took out all of those units in Russia. You need to be swift and precise. I am sending you on an assassination mission. You are temporarily suspended from your activities. All power will be transferred to Tougou until you complete this mission.

"I have heard rumours of a man, the leader of a resistance force against me… He has recently resurfaced and has been seen here and there. A few of my soldiers noticed him and have since increased the public's awareness about his danger. He is an Iron Fist participant. He has red hair…"

His heart clenched, _No. Please, no._

"…and he is my rival, from long ago. A childish, petty rivalry with a thug. Who knew that even as I ascended to Godhood, he would be there, following me, willing to take me down over one stupid, insignificant loss…" he looked back at the Captain, "I want you to murder the Tae Kwon Do practitioner, who goes by the name of Hwoarang and the street alias of the Blood Talon, by Friday night. You are to bring me his head."

_I can't…_

"Do we have an understanding?" Jin inquired blandly.

_No – _"Yes," he gritted out painfully.

"Very good… Now get to work."

The smirk on his face indicated to the stiffly, saluting soldier that he was fully aware of who made him happy nowadays.

* * *

_He knew. Jin Kazama knew the source of my joy.  
His aim was to turn out the lights and make me follow him blindly again.  
He was going to take my light, _my _Hwoarang.  
Not for his petty vendetta against him – it was only because he _could_.  
I don't know for how fast or long I ran to the dead gardens on that day._

* * *

Friday had come. Lars had not taken the shot.

Before he left for the dead gardens, he'd packed his car with as many items as he could – photos, food, cooking utensils, money, his paintings, clothes, blankets, and so on and so forth. He had a plan, and he wanted to implement it as fast as possible. He'd been here on Wednesday and Thursday evening, but Hwoarang never showed. He would send him a text message, only to have 'I can't. I'll be caught' sent in reply.

Well, he knew the Korean would show today, like he always did. And he could see him coming now, duffle bag slung over his shoulder as always – but the cocky stride he'd grown accustomed to was still missing since their last conversation. He would constantly look over his shoulder and around the place, as though paranoid. It was only when their eyes met did Lars realise something.

Hwoarang was terrified.

"What are you doing here?" Hwoarang hissed lowly, "This isn't the time to be painting."

"And this is not the time for you to be training," the Swede hissed back, "There is a _reason _I've been contacting you, it's quite serious. Jin has asked me to kill you, _by tonight. _Why do you think I was so urgent to get you out here…?" The brief flash of surprise that went across the Korean's face did not go unnoticed, "And you know that I won't do that. I've packed the car with everything we need. Come with me and we can go. We don't need to be here anymore."

"What do you mean we don't need to be here? What about my Master? What about Tougou? Did you even _think_ about them!?"

"They both agree with my decision if it means protecting your life!" he remarked, throat tightening.

He quietened for a moment before scratching his head, "Why are you going to so much trouble for _me?_"

"Does it even need saying, Hwoarang?" He asked, inching closer. Not waiting for anything, he placed a light kiss on his cheek and took both of his hands, "I said I would never let you go, and I will stay true to that. So please, come with me and let's leave."

"What is one life in a war?" He looked down before looking back up, not bothered about getting an answer to the question he posed, "Lars, are you sure you want to do this? You want to throw away the position you've gotten for yourself, _for the world, _for a kid who has pretty much no talent whatsoever –"

"You do have talent. You make me happy, and that takes a lot."

The compliment did not phase him, "- and no real life ahead of him."

"You have a life… _with me._"

"I'm going to die anyway," he shrugged, but there was a large sign of life in his face. He was happy that he had someone so loving to look after him, after he had so few to do that for him, and so many to damage him in his life. He looked up and smiled wholeheartedly at his partner.

"Stop arguing with me," the Swede rolled his eyes, realising that he was playing around, and grabbed his hand, moving towards the car, "Just come on –"

"Stop there."

They froze.

Jin Kazama, Nina Williams and Eddy Gordo stepped from the shadows. Lars cursed almost inaudibly in Swedish, thereafter murmuring to an annoyed Hwoarang and slowly inching in front of him, "Get behind me and get ready to run to the car. Whatever happens, don't let go of my hand."

"Did you think you could get away from your mission?" Jin asked, bored. He looked to his nails, before looking to Nina, "Miss Williams here has been keeping a close eye on you since your obvious emotional change…" he looked back to Lars, "…and needless to say I am most mortified, angered and surprised to see you fraternising with _an enemy. My _enemy."

"He didn't and still doesn't know what he's doing. Let him go."

"Oh, he knows _full well _what he is doing. He is not stupid."

"He's… He's just a kid, Jin. Please, let him go."

"He is a few months _older _than _me! _Are you therefore accusing that I too am a child?!"

"No, sir."

"Excellent! Eddy!" Eddy straightened up and placed a gun on the floor. He kicked it towards Lars, whom watched it skitter across the brick pavement. He looked back up to his speaking boss, "Alexandersson, pick up that gun. _Now._"

Lars hesitated. The feel of Hwoarang's body firmly pressed up against his, shivering, was incredibly draining. The youth's forehead was pressed against his back, one of his hands were on his shoulders, the other was gripping his own, and his eyes were shut incredibly tight. The soldier could vaguely hear him mutter 'I don't want to die I don't want to die I don't want to die' – he felt his eyes water.

"Pick up the gun, Lars! _Pick it up!_"

"No."

Behind him, Hwoarang spoke softly, squeezing his hand, "Lars… I gotta tell you something."

"You're not going to die," he murmured back, before speaking to Jin, "I refuse to shoot him. He is too important to me… Please Jin, with whatever heart you have left, let him go. Think of your Mother, would she want you to do this? She loved you, she still loves you, and she would not want you to shoot someone who is loved by many!"

"_My Mother _is _dead, _Lars Alexandersson," he pulled out his own handgun and pointed it directly at him, "And I am not a child anymore. She has no say in my life, she cannot even _be _in my life anymore. How dare you bring her into this…" he strengthened his voice, which had weakened at the memories of his Mother, "Nina, separate them."

The woman walked up, and despite being protectively shoved away by Lars, she still managed to get a trembling Hwoarang to his partner's left side. They were still holding hands. She looked to Jin for a moment, whom corrected his aim to the Korean, before standing behind both of them, pointing to the handgun on the ground – a silent instruction.

Shaking his head viciously and gripping Hwoarang's hand all the tighter, he said, "No! I will _not _kill him!"

Jin smirked, "If you won't, then I will!"

The shot was fired. Hwoarang cried out, holding his stomach. Another shot was fired, and he fell to the ground, holding his chest. It all burned, like an eternal fire. His vision faded in and out – he wasn't sure if Kazama struck him in the heart, but he knew that he'd pierced a lung. He was finding it very difficult to breathe, even as Nina stepped back and Lars hovered over him, still holding his hand, "Hwoarang! Hwoarang hang in there, you're not going to…"

"I'm… gonna die. End of story. Thanks for…" he inhaled, his breath raspy, "trying though. Really."

"You can't leave. You put meaning back in my life. You're my everything – you're my best friend, lover, family, _inspiration… _Just…"

He wanted to speak, but he hesitated. Smiling faintly, speaking with a fading, weak voice, "Jag älskar dig, Lars."

His hand fell away. Lars found himself shaking uncontrollably, unable to reply as much as he wanted to.

* * *

_He got to tell me.  
I never got to tell him.  
_'_Sarang hae' would never fall off my tongue. It hurts me everyday.__  
I tell him everyday now, yet he will never hear.  
That is my biggest regret._

* * *

Tears fell and stained the pages of his diary. He closed it harshly and threw it to the floor beside him. He watched it fall open, and squinted, seeing that the diary had opened to the day that he realised his feelings. It just _had _to open on that day of all days, didn't it? It was bad enough that it replayed in his mind everyday – his own form of torture.

Lars turned his head away to the right and looked to the orange sky. He'd only left his apartment for work related business, surprised that Jin had not yet fired him or had him killed. He was still needed, and until that day, he would stay alive. Tougou had come over numerous times with sushi to try and cheer him up. Baek too tried, bringing kimchi. The food alone inspired memories that he still could not look upon with a smile – only with a frown and shimmering eyes.

He looked back to the desk he was sitting at. To his left in a thin, golden frame was a photograph of him and _he who just can't be named anymore, because it hurts too much – _and they were smiling, though he had to force it on that day. He grabbed it and continued to stare, before forcing himself to look away and put it back. His eyes fell on the next item on the desk – his paint brushes.

He grabbed all four of them, all being different shapes and sizes. Consumed by the feelings of despair and heartbreak, Lars gripped them tightly. He continued to squeeze them with an agonised growl, to put pressure on them, until they all snapped in half in his hand. Broken, he threw his now forsaken and destroyed passion out the open window, abandoned.

* * *

_Ever since that day in the dead gardens… I stopped painting.  
I couldn't pick up the brush and put it to the canvas.  
If I tried, I'd just stop and shake my head, because I didn't know what to paint.  
Because, I'd want to paint him. And he's not here anymore.  
I've lost my inspiration._


End file.
